MAST YEAR

by CALEB JOHNSON

Once again the oaks have conspired
through their subterranean language
to overlay the forest floor in acorns. 

Green, yellow, sunburst. Some grow
as big as my thumb. The dog cracks 
choice ones with her molars.  

Our oldest son tests his arm, 
firing one after another 
off the ridge. This shifting season  

we walk as if upon marbles. 
Deer are fat and unbothered 
as stones. See the crepuscular signs  

of a black bear, scat and tracks 
among the mast. Beneath the oak 
lie limbs snapped in a feeding frenzy. 

The road home is dusted,
uncapped acorns crushed 
under tires, a bird’s welcome  

feast. At night I hear them 
falling on our metal roof. 
A racket as startling as gunfire.